


This ship has kriffing sailed

by FLWhite



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Cameos everywhere, Characters Reading Fanfiction, Crack, Drug Use, Fluff, Gambling, I guess actually kryotin, International Fanworks Day 2018, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Canon, Rimming, Sabacc, Star Wars: The Last Jedi Spoilers, Stripping, anyway, brief BDSM, brief come-eating, brief frottage, everyone is a shipper, handjobs, jokes about rimming, mind-reading, reylo and hux/phasma but only if you wanted to read it that way, sort of in character, utter crack, what does out of character even mean anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-19 03:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13695945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: It has been sent less than ten minutes ago. Already it has two thousand and fifty-five replies. More flood in with dings as Hux lets the datapad fall to the floor. He does not care. He does not care about anything. He sees only the death of billions. Also somewhere in there, though, is Ren's cock, which he tries to cover up with mental images of planetary fireballs, to no avail. His mind's just stuffed with a beautiful dick, and a bunch of fireballs, and millions of voices crying out. He tries to pretend they sound like voices in terror, not like himself screaming 'more' and 'deeper'.***For International Fanworks Day 2018. When they realize that shipping has taken a literal (and literary) turn onboard the First Order Star Destroyer Conqueror, it's a…psychedelic time for Supreme Leader Ren and General Hux.Because, as it turns out, everyone on the ship... ships them. Literally everyone. And people on the Order's other ships, too. And people who are currently running away from the Order's ships, three. Mortal foe kinds of people.





	1. its kriffin tru!!! the ship sails!1!

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: Can something be super-NC-17 is that possible
> 
> Okay, seriously though, caveat lector:  
> This is a crack fic. Very literally so. However, lest there be impressionable minds attached to the fingers that clicked to open this link: 
> 
> -Illegal substances are illegal.  
> -Please use legal substances responsibly. Please be aware that they can compromise sexual consent. Learn what consent is and make sure you have it from any sexual partners.  
> -Likewise, gamble responsibly, and get help if you need it.  
> -There are some brief attempts at dark comedy surrounding self-harm/suicide, homicide, and genocide in later chapters. Please avoid if they may be triggering to you, and talk to someone if you find yourself struggling with ideation like this. (Call the Lifeline here in the US: 1-800-273-825; check here for links to provincial hotlines in Canada: https://suicideprevention.ca/need-help/).
> 
> If you like my shit, feel free to check me out on [Tumblr](http://xiangyu.tumblr.com).

  1. _its kriffin tru!!! the ship sails!1!_



The first thoughts Armitage Hux typically has, of a morning, are of a hot cup of caf, a quick go under the highest setting in his refresher's sonics, and of the countless notifications and reports that are sure to have appeared on his comlink and datapad overnight.

 

They are _not_ typically "fuck," "fuck me," or "fuck me and push me out the airlock." Which are exactly what he is thinking on this morning, 0715 hours, as he regards the bed from which he has just sat upright. He thinks these things not because of the state of said bed (grotesquely disordered, pillows missing, sheets pulled off the mattress), nor how he has slept (extremely poorly), nor the state of his night clothes (worryingly nonexistent and nowhere to be seen, except for one sock his left foot has retained).

 

No, Armitage Hux is screaming to himself and turning red and white in festive succession because his nemesis, who also happens to be Supreme Leader of the Galaxy (mostly), is lying facedown in his bed, gently snoring and sprawling so widely that it's no wonder Hux can barely bend his neck in any direction without agony shooting from skull to shoulder blade.

 

 _What to do,_ he thinks desperately to himself, paralyzed by a nauseating combination of horrified curiosity (how in the Empire's name had this happened), rock-hard lust (without so much as a pair of briefs to conceal it), and, immediately contingent upon it, disgust (at himself) and fury (at Kylo Ren, because of all the fucking _tens of thousands_ of people in this Order to wake up with this kind of morning wood to, it _had_ to be Kylo Ren).

 

Ren gives a charming snuffle and flips over. Hux's stomach does the same, sans snuffle. Ren is also completely nude. And Sith take him if _he_ isn't hard too. The sight finally whips Hux's body into motion. He sprints into the refresher (though some part of him is—he grits his teeth— _entranced_ by the surprisingly dewy, virginal, velvety pink of the Supreme Leader's cock, which is of course enormous like the rest of him). He twists on the sonics to max _and_ wastefully blasts the water shower _and_ presses the eject button on the commode _and_ runs the small sink. The din is excruciating as a headache begins to pound behind his eyes. But thank every star, he hears some movement from the bedroom. There is maybe also some words said, but he ignores them, and after what feel to be innumerable tortuous minutes have passed, he cautiously cracks the door 15% after switching the dial to "manual open," still allowing the water and sonics and sink and commode to roar on behind him, releasing clouds of steam.

 

The bed is empty and he nearly weeps with relief.

 

***

 

Things do not improve after he's clean, uniformed, and caffed. Not at all.

 

He is just starting to step out of his quarters at top speed while scrolling through his datapad when a new Universal Memo pops up, glowing red and yellow. He narrows his eyes at the subject line. _its kriffin tru!!! the ship sails!1!_ It is from some staff sergeant, FL-9414—the lowest rank at which any First Order enlisted can dispatch a UniMem. His index finger hovers over it. His caff-roiled stomach is all but screeching out loud at him to not click and open the message. But Armitage Hux takes pride in not blindly listening to his gut. He is a man of pride. Diginity. Reason.

 

He clicks the message.

 

_63/9/14, 0812_

_From: FL-9414_

_To: FO_UNI_MEM_

_Subject: its kriffin tru!!! the ship sails!1!_

_Sry for typos Im dying krif_

_saw dis just now on patrol_

_final proof_

_KYLUX LIVES_

_< 3 <3 <3 <3_

_-*~Shipsailor~*_

 

Hux swallows when he scrolls to the image, clearly a hastily snapped capture from a trooper's standard-issue shoulder-cam. It's Ren, his tunic on inside-out and without his belt, hair _indescribably_ mussed, blurred in the frame as he strides out of the very doorway in which Hux is now frozen and gazing unblinkingly down at his datapad. The doorway to Hux's quarters. Indistinct though Ren's features are, it can be none other. And the letters on the luminescent red signplate next to the entry keypad are unmistakable: Hux, A.

 

Then he notices that the scroll bar has advanced almost imperceptibly, though he is at the end of FL-9414--or *~Shipsailor~*'s—message. Below the snap from the shoulder-cam, there is a vast, multicolored chain of previous messages, arrayed in reverse chronological order and in full. All of them addressed to a list Hux has never seen before, "FO_UNI_OTP." FL-9414 has sent his most recent message to the wrong list. He swallows again as his eyes catch helplessly at some of the nested chain of earlier missives to FO_UNI_OTP, and his fingertips scrabble, with mounting panic, at the scroll bar.

 

_Caught Gen. H staring for no less than 5 min today on the bridge while Ren smashed another navigation station with his MIND_

 

followed by a small supernova of one-line messages like _ugh_ , _kriff, YES!!!!_ and _he's wishing that navistat was his ASS._ Then there are other messages, longer ones, with even larger outbursts in their wake:

_"Ohh," sighed the dark-haired Force adept around the ball gag that the redhead shoved between his luscious, bruised lips._

_"You love it rough," whispered the General, as his captive groaned beneath him. Then he entered Ren mercilessly, driving until his balls were wedged between Ren's oil-slicked, round, perfect ass cheeks._

 

"Fuck." Hux says, out loud. Again, there are excellent reasons for this uncharacteristic slip. Hux utters myriad profanities at near-constant clip _to himself_ over the course of a day, but almost never lets them out to breathe.

 

Reason the first: he's still _damn_ turned on, or maybe he's turned on _again_ , and the jodhpurs he pulled on in haste aren’t doing their saggy, baggy job so well, perhaps, as he realizes only now, because they are backwards.

 

Reason the second: he _has_ seen these messages before—not the one that FL-9414 just accidentally sent to the whole nerf-fucking First Order, but "FO_UNI_OTP." He saw them quite recently. In fact, last night. Hux says "fuck" again, and it comes out more like a sob, because

 

Reason the third: now he is remembering everything that happened last night.


	2. Event horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What is it?" He burst out as soon as the door sealed behind them. Perhaps if he could get in a few solid hits first, he had a chance of getting out of the ring alive. Momentum. "There are a thousand things I must see to today, the repair crews are running a parts shortage and there's still nothing useful they're getting from all the things we found in that den on Crait and—"
> 
> "Have you," Ren said, clearly but sluggishly, as though his throat had turned to zingbee honey, "ever tried kryotin?"  
> ***  
> Hux remembers the events of last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See prefatory notes on Ch. 1 for warnings.

After his encounter with Skywalker on Crait, Ren had become _off_. Or had _turned_ off. He destroyed no infrastructure, major or minor; strangled no one, not even a little bit. He let the recovery and intelligence crews practically walk over him as they searched the Resistance's blasted bunkers. He refused to meet anyone's eyes, or even turn in their direction. He did not speak.

 

When they got back from that nasty salty hell to the _Conqueror,_ where Hux immediately got to ordering repairs on the _Supremacy_ , Ren had shuffled off—a bizarre sight for one who always _strode_ or _stomped_ or _sprinted_ \--and vanished for the next twenty days. To be precise, twenty days, fourteen hours, and fifty-two minutes. Not that Hux was counting. Things were quiet without Ren crashing about. Orderly. Busy. Everything in its right place. Like the way things had been, for the years of the Order's exile, except of course they were now reaping their sweet desserts.

 

Ren re-emerged yesterday evening on the main bridge, still shuffling. Hux had had ample time to prepare for his arrival, as he'd ordered an instant alert should Ren be detected exiting his rooms. Thus Hux was standing at perfect attention in front of the ship's main viewport, from which the repair crew on the _Supremacy_ looked like floater fleas harassing a dying banta in space, trying to breathe. He did not need to turn to feel all eyes were on him, and on Ren, as the latter drew slowly to Hux's side.

 

"General."

 

Hux felt lightheaded. "Supreme Leader."

 

"I have to have a word." Feeling like he was a hapless ship entering the event horizon of the supermassive black heart of the galaxy, Hux turned toward Ren, who stood with his dark eyes hooded. He seemed—more himself. Hux took a unsteady breath. But Ren was also strange, in a different way. Fuzzy at the edges. His hair looked especially soft in artless dark piles, and his mouth seemed pinker than usual; indeed, his entire sallow face was somehow radiant.

 

"Yes?"

 

"A _private_ word." Hux shut his eyes briefly. He was well and good inside the horizon now, and knew he would soon be spaghettified by the endless abyss of gravitational singularity yawning below him. The bridge was absolutely silent as they proceeded across it. Hux hated every single one of these one hundred and twenty-two spineless idiots in uniform. Once Ren killed him horribly, how they would rue not stepping forward to their General's defense. He hoped Ren'd use the saber. That looked fastest. Once the bridge doors had shut, Hux frowned at his nemesis, who showed no signs of homicidal intent. Just stood there in the harsh light of the corridor somehow still managing to look tousled, warm, and flushed. "What?"

 

"Have you—" Ren pressed his mouth closed as a patrol of FO-squadron troopers filed past, turned on their heels, and saluted the two of them. Hux waved his hand distractedly at the soldiers, and after a pause that he could have sworn was a _moment_ too long, they saluted again and marched down the hallway, clicking in time. "My quarters."

 

"Wha—" Hux began again, but choked when Ren seized his forearm in a large gloved hand. His first reaction was to swivel his head frantically to see if anyone had noticed, but then Ren began to shuffle again, pulling him along. Still, he thought he saw the last two troopers of the patrol peering backward over their shoulders as Ren dragged him away.

 

***

They'd walked the short distance slowly, but Hux found himself still breathless as Ren put his hand on the door keypad, over which hung the red letters _Ren, K._

 

"What _is_ it?" He burst out as soon as the door sealed behind them. Perhaps if he could get in a few solid hits first, he had a chance of getting out of the ring alive. Momentum. "There are a _thousand_ things I must see to today, the repair crews are running a parts shortage and there's still nothing useful they're getting from all the things we found in that den on Crait and—"

 

"Have you," Ren said, clearly but sluggishly, as though his throat had turned to zingbee honey, "ever tried kryotin?"

 

"What?! First of all, _definitively_ illegal. Second of all, _absolutely_ not allowed on boar—" He interrupted himself, mouth slack. "Are you _laughing_ at me?"  


Even Ren's chuckles sounded soft, like big plush pillows being very gently tossed at Hux's head. "You sound like my mother."

 

Hux goggled. Ren _never_ called her that. He never even deigned to utter "Organa" unless absolutely without alternative.

 

"Except the stick up your ass is _much_ bigger." Ren began to laugh in earnest. His teeth were (objectively, perfectly objectively, Hux told himself) beautiful. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes made him look like an utterly different person. Suddenly Hux realized.

 

"You're on it."

 

"Rah, rah, Arkanis Head Boy! Honors List for you!"

 

"What the _fuck_ ," Hux made fists. He liked to make fists. Fists were good. Strong. Tight. Fists did not have eyeballs to be drawn to stare at Ren's laugh, which was like a solar storm at point-blank range in its brilliance. Nor did fists have penises, to twitch in the pants of their owners.

 

"It helps with…stuff," Ren said, still smiling as he put a hand into some secret pocket in the breast of his tunic and held out a palm-sized transparent polysteel bag. "Here. Nice 'n' warm."

 

Hux had never seen so much spice in one place. Sure, there had been some Dontworry and Purple Lotus floating about at Arkanis, and he'd seen some troopers with orange-streaked hands and faces from using Sansanna, poorly concealed with cosmetics. But kryotin—this was spice from wild space. Stuff that _nobody_ thought should be legal, not the corrupt hegemons of the Old Republic, not the Emperor, and certainly not the Order. He'd only heard whispers: instant addiction, hallucinations for weeks, painful deaths from withdrawal. Losing teeth. Losing hair. Going blind. Open sores all over. Genitals bleeding. Bones softening. Livers shriveling.

 

"Well," said Ren, chuckling again (very annoying, very distracting, thought Hux) and tapping his teeth with a long finger, "still got all these." Then, to Hux's horror, he ran the hand to which the finger was attached through his hair, luxuriously slowly. "Still got most of these too, I'd bet. As for the bleeding, well--"

 

"D-don't," he stammered, as he watched the hair fall back into a dark halo around Ren's face. "Get out of my head."

 

"I'm just looking out for you, General." Ren raised both eyebrows. "Figured you'd want a hit before what I got to show you."

 

Hux's internal voice had long since become a single, high-pitched, unending scream. The sphagettification had begun.

 

"You might want to sit." Ren flicked two fingers, and the desk chair slid behind Hux's knees, bumping them just enough that he fell back onto it. "Here, hand out."

 

"Ren, no, I still have two hours—more—on shift—"

 

"Look. Trust me. You'll want to be on it to see this. And you _need_ to see this." Ren took one of Hux's hands in his own. Hux seethed at him. When had the bastard shed his gloves? Why were his hands so warm? Why couldn't Hux pull his own away? "You probably didn't do _anything_ at Arkanis, did you."

 

"I—"

 

"No, I get it. I'd never have known about anything either, if it were up to Mother and _Master_ Luke Skywalker." Ren grinned sadly. "At least my old man would come through on this kind of thing."

 

Hux felt a feeble twitch of annoyance under this bewildering onslaught and clutched it for all it was worth. "Are you going to show me this _thing_ so I can get back to running the galaxy for you, or are you going to talk endlessly about your _Mama_ and _Papa_?"

 

The shot hit true, he saw, with satisfaction that did not last. Ren looked suddenly murderous. At least that was familiar, Hux reassured himself. At least in this state it was possible to gaze directly at Ren. "Fine then, no spice for you." Ren raised his hand and a datapad flew into it from the bedside console. It was an incongruous image: Hux did not think he'd ever seen Ren with one before. Too _normal_ , or in this case, not at all. "Here. You can get it _sober_."

 

The screen was chockablock with messages. The translucent pulsing bar at top read FO_UNI_OTP. "OTP? That's not a file type," said Hux reflexively. Then he started reading.

 

As soon as he hit the first _delicious moan_ , approximately two seconds in, he thrust a hand at Ren. "Spice."

 

Ren took Hux's hand again and drew some little tickling lines down the palm with a finger, damn him with every wrinkle of Palpatine's face. "Ask nicely."

 

Hux, unable to look away from the riptide of words, groaned. "Ren!" ( _Velvety taint_ , he read, brain barely able to make sense of the shapes onscreen. _Come dripping from the distended hole_. _A scream of passion that echoed in the throne room._ ) "Ren, please, for stars' sake."

 

"Just say sorry," Ren murmured. Were those his lips, feather-light against Hux's palm? Deities and novas, what had he done to deserve such torments as these? ( _Ren's cock shuddered against the General's and spurted hotly, glazing them both. They sucked the salty strings of semen from each other's lips_.)

 

"I'm sorry. I'm very, very, very sorry." ( _"Open up, General. I_ know _you're touching yourself in there."_ )

 

"There's a good boy," said Ren, and dumped a small mountain of spice onto Hux's palm.


	3. This is spaghettification now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strip sabacc while high: confessions and orgasms ensue.

Some time later they decided to play strip sabacc.

 

This, as far as Hux could recall, was due to a message posted to FO_UNI_OTP by none other than Phasma herself, a lengthy one, some two weeks ago. Only days before her death. Writing under her own name, very Phasma of her. There was strip sabacc involved. And unfortunate misappropriation of a roast baster from the officers' mess kitchens. And lots of rimming. Lots and lots of rimming. And a coy little "to be continued."

 

To think, he had actually let his eyes moisten when he heard of Phasma's horrible demise at the hands of that traitorous FN-2187. To think, he'd actually thought she would stand by him, in that moment when he had found Ren in a stupor in what had been Snoke's audience chamber, and he'd had his blaster clutched in his sweaty hand; he'd been so sure she'd be with him, as she had always been, if he assumed his rightful place at the head of the Order.

 

After reading that one he _had_ let his eyes moisten, and more. He actually burst into a few horribly undignified, snorting sobs. Ren held his hand. It was all extremely overwhelming. "You really _liked_ Phasma."

 

"I did like her, I did," he covered his eyes with his free hand. Presently the sobs faded and he peered turtlishly at Ren, who was looking abstracted. "She liked me too—or I _thought_."

 

"She _did_ like you, you ass," Ren said, still distant. "This message is at least three times longer than the usual ones they send around. Lucky you."

 

Hux frowned. "Not lucky. She died."

 

"Well, it's not like she hates you and refuses to ever see you again. Being dead is different."

 

Hux was irked—and the kryotin was making him _much_ less irked than usual, so the irk must've been a deep one. "You're still on that scavenger?"

 

"Rey," Ren immediately corrected. "Rey is her name."

 

"On _Rey_?"

 

"I'm not _on_ her, obviously. She's shut me out." Ren shook the bag of spice. "Good thing I got me some of this."

 

"You were… _in_?"

 

"Well, of course." Ren gave a sharp shake of his head when his eyes refocused on Hux's. "Not like _that."_

 

The irk wasn't going away. "Well, however it was like, she's gone, so what's the fucking point of fussing? They've hardly anyone left. We'll soon find them."

 

Ren said nothing.

 

"Why are you so _fixed_ on her? You'd think she were the queen—the queen of the galaxy. Oh." The irk took a swirling turn and shot into Hux's mouth: the sour-sharp sting of jealousy. "You _wanted_ her to—you killed Snoke for her to—"

 

"—No, _she_ killed--!" Ren's growl of rage rapidly settled into a sullen frown. "Fine. I _did_ ask. She said no." Ren curled his lip. "Obviously."

 

"But she's _nobody_!"

 

"And Phasma's just a stormtrooper! And you were _crying_ over her!"

"Fuck you," said Hux.

 

"That's what she would've wanted of you, apparently."

 

That shut both of them up, and they stared down at their feet. Ren had taken a seat opposite Hux, on his bed. From this he suddenly got up. "Let's do it then."

 

Spaghettification complete, Hux thought, mind already wobbling off to _pert pink nipples_ and _tangled black hair_. "All right," he said at last, and began to slide his thumbs into the waist of his jodhpurs.

 

"No no no, what are you doing, Head Boy?" Ren was chortling again. "It's _strip_ sabacc. You trying to give me a head start? I don't need it. I got good sabacc genes. In fact, I should be handicapping _myself_."

"What are we playing for," Hux managed to whisper around the throb of his arousal. "No one gives a kriff about being naked."

 

A very small needle of rationality remained lying at the bottom of his brain; he picked it up and tried to lance this ever-swelling boil of _what-the-fuck_ ness. "Ren. This is all—this is—how can we command them anymore? At all? Galloping thantas, this is total fucking disciplinary failure—we have to court-martial eighty-five—no, ninety percent of the officers--"

 

Ren eyed him with a little smile. He appeared to be taking off his boots. His socks, Hux noted, were unsurprisingly black. His ankles were exceptionally well-turned. " _Gen_ eral. _Breathe_. It's fine."

 

"How can—what?"

 

Ren leaned in conspiratorially. A strand of his hair tickled Hux's cheek, which obediently turned

bright red in response. "What if I told you we weren't the only ones?"

 

Hux gazed at Ren with jaw slack, dimly wondering if he were drooling.

 

"When I first--left Skywalker," Ren said, moving yet closer, his mouth practically on Hux's ear,

"I was fucking around with an old Imperial comlink set. Trying to trace Grandfather's mask. I found another one of these…rings. More old-school. A bunch of comlink-grams. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. No, millions." Hux stared. "Yes, 120 characters apiece."

 

"Who—"

 

"Imperials, Rebels, Neutrals. Everybody. Everybody _wrote_ ," Ren clarified. "It was the Emperor and Darth Vader."

 

"Oh, no, _this_ is spaghettification now," Hux said out loud as images, unbidden, crowded his mind.

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing. V-Vader and the Emperor?" He tried to swallow, in vain. His tongue was like sand. "Was it… _true_?"

 

"Well," Ren frowned, "nobody would give me a straight answer when I asked."

 

"W-well, do _you_ think it's true?"

 

Ren blinked. "He _was_ my _grandfather_. Anyway," Ren continued, blithely, when Hux proved unable to pursue his previous line of questioning, " _they_ didn't have 'disciplinary issues'—" Ren interrupted himself to wrinkle his brow at Hux. "Hux, you're _foul_. Wow. Shit. I don't think I saw anything like _that_ on the com."

 

"I told you, get out of my head." He shook it, for emphasis. "In fact—I know what to wager. If I win, you'll _stay_ out of my head. Forever."

 

"That's a big ask."

 

"Are you betting or aren't you?"

 

Hux watched Ren slowly lick his lips, as though they were coated in something delicious. _Delicious moan_ , he automatically supplied, and made fists again. Hard. Hard enough to pinch his palms with his nails. Through the kryotin, though, it felt tingly. Pleasant. _Delicious_.

 

Well, the genital bleeding bit was untrue, unless by bleeding the prohibition campaigners meant "filling up with absolutely every last drop of blood in one's body." If someone gave his groin a nick now, he'd probably hemorrhage to death in seconds.

 

"All right. Let's shuffle." The deck of cards looked well-worn and had again appeared with a lift of Ren's hand.

 

"Wait," said Hux, crossing his legs, "what's _your_ wager?"

 

Ren merely smiled. He showed his canines. "Don't have to tell you."

 

"But I told you _mine_!"

 

Ren put down the deck on the bed beside him and leaned forward, laying both palms flat on Hux's thighs as they trembled from the effort of being squeezed together. "Are you Supreme Leader, or am I?"

 

***

Hux pinches the bridge of his nose. He has retreated back within the foyer of his quarters, allowing the doors to shut, locked them as he reviews all this, leaning on a wall bonelessly.

 

Before commencing the game, they'd each had another healthy dose of spice. He'd said something—damned if he could remember what, but probably nothing good—he thinks it might have been _does this make me the Emperor then, since I'm definitely not Vader_? followed immediately by _my quarters, my Imperial Majesty refuses to take off anything in this hovel_. Their passage from Ren's quarters to his own were quite a bit muzzier than everything that came before; all he could piece together of that was Ren at his elbow, boots in one hand and the other waving around wildly—at the surveillance monitors? Had he also waved at a patrol of troopers who appeared around a corner of the corridor, causing the poor soldiers to make an abrupt U-turn and run off in the other direction?

 

Hux does think he remembers Ren sniggering into his ear somewhere along the way that _this is just like a droid training session, but_ much _more fun, I should do this more often_ , whereupon Hux had laughed out loud even as his throat closed up and his insides began to do calisthenics and his palms sweated like they were on Dagobah. Other than that, everything felt so _soft_ and _easy_ as they ambled along together, except for his prick, which was resolutely _not_.

 

The next thing Hux can dredge up from his poor ravaged brain is Ren unclasping his tunic while Hux wondered, out loud, whether he were going to vomit. Ren had paused and actually _pouted_. Why hadn't Hux mentioned he was so fucking good at sabacc, he'd demanded. Hux, trying to look at the most boring corner of his bedroom while breathing deeply through his nose, had reflexively retorted, _Why didn't you mention you were such banta-shit at it_.

At some point subsequently, one of three things happened. Well, all three things _had_ absolutely happened _, at some point._ But Hux couldn't be sure of their order. Perhaps Ren grabbed him by the neck and dragged him in like a giant, half-dressed tractor beam and kissed him, first. Perhaps Ren'd taken off his trousers and revealed nothing on underneath, leaving the half-undone tunic to flap around his ridiculous pectorals. Perhaps he'd mumbled—perhaps out loud, though he sincerely prays not, _I have no lube, please don't try to use that thing on me_ , looking at Ren's majestic erection.

 

The eventual outcome, though, was Hux, on hands and knees on his own bed, down to one sock, while Ren, retaining an unknown number of garments but certainly neither his tunic nor his pants (which were flung across Hux's pillows), did exactly what Phasma's message had had him doing to Hux's ass, but one better, because a burning-hot, pawlike hand was clamped around Hux's cock and pumping it like it'd fall off otherwise. Or maybe detaching it _was_ the intent? _This_ , said Ren against Hux's thigh, _is so there's not a "to be continued."_

_Well good,_ he had managed to rasp out, _not that I want to either_.

 

Ren had reached through Hux's legs and pulled on his jaw so that, looking down, Hux met Ren's glowering eyes. Softly glowering. Possibly actually smirking, instead. _You don't want to finish_ this _?_ He had shifted his hand to give a nasty tug on Hux's balls, making him yelp. _Sure?_

_Ugh—no, not what I mean—_

 

 _What do you mean_ _then_?

 

 _Later--I—finish me—I hate you—hate you so much_. _You_ cheated.

 

 _Well, I didn't say I'd get out of your head_ before _I lost the game._

 

_F-f---fu--fuck you._

_What a shore loosher_ , Ren had slurred happily, reapplying his tongue and lips, _big shurprish,_

Ugh, thinks Hux, in the dimness of his foyer, having slid down the wall and curled against it, putting his forehead against his crossed arms. His comlink and datapad, beside him, are positively combusting with vibrations and _ping_ -ing notifications. He gropes blindly for them. Perhaps he should flush them down the commode. Or throw them under the hot-water shower and get in with them, to die in a miniature ion-storm. Or—he fumbles for his blaster, realizes he'd forgotten to holster it that morning ( _of course_ , his mind unhelpfully supplies, _remember what Ren did to you, with the grip_?), and screams weakly in frustration. Or unrelenting lust. Or just coming off the spice. _Palpatine's prick,_ his neck hurts.

There is a headsplittingly loud _ping-pong_ chime. The door. No. He can't face them, even via the holodisplay of the door lock. Only one honorable way out. Just like the old Imperial warriors. He won't even need to leave a ritual message. There were _quite_ enough messages flying around already. Where'd Ren thrown the blaster, afterward? He begins to crawl toward the bed on hands and knees.

 

 _Open up,_ says Ren's voice in his head, _General. I know you're thinking about something stupid in there._

 

He flings himself onto the bed (still disfigured after Ren's occupancy). "Go away," he mutters. Even he is not convinced by himself.

 

The door creaks only twice, and gently, before floating into pieces. Hux can tell there are seven of them, crisply broken at the seams of the irising mechanism, because the corridor light casts a nice shadow of them onto his bedroom floor. They fly into a surprisingly neat stack at the foot of his bed. "General." Ren's weight causes the bed to dip, and Hux's legs to roll toward the edge. "Unfortunately, I do not believe you are qualified to be queen of the galaxy."

 

Hux says nothing.

 

"But how about Grand Marshal, at least?" Hux lets his arm fall from over his face and stares. Ren is looking inscrutable.

 

"Did you have another dose? Are you," Hux shoots upright, suddenly indignant, "just _constantly_ high?"

 

"Look, I just offered you a promotion." Ren sighs. (It is like a honey-heavy flower sighing in a tropical night-breeze. Hux clenches his molars together when he remembers from which message chain that particular image derived. It had involved impregnation. And Ren growing tentacles. ) "We've got to go after the Resistance remnants. _Now_. You've—gotten farther than me so far, at least."

 

"Wh—you just still can't _drop_ her? We've got agents in all the Outer Rim systems, tripled in—"

 

"You _don't_ understand," Ren drawls. Probably, without the spice, it would be a growl. He tosses Hux's datapad at him. "Refresh that."

 

It's still open to FO_UNI_OTP. Cringing, Hux does as he is told, and a blue light filled the screen. "A holo attachment?" He squints at the sender name. "FN-2187?!"

 

"Just play the holo," says Ren. His voice was probably as grave as anyone's can be if they've ingested a small planet's GDP's worth of kryotin in the last twelve hours. Finger unsteady, Hux punches the "play" key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and sending your kudoses! I hope you've had a fun time. One last coda bit to go.
> 
> On spaghettification: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaghettification


	4. Kill them all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand coda.

_Heyyyy stormsibs_ , FN-2187's hateful visage is nearly pulled in half by his _enormous_ grin. _I heard the grrrrreat news._ A young female voice roars with laughter from behind the holocamera. _So first of all Rey wins all you all's pools on the sabacc thing. You fuckin' weirdos. I love you anyway._ I _win for the spice_ —FN-2187 is interrupted by someone entering the holocamera's capture field feet-first—it is the pilot Dameron, leaping into frame, draping himself over FN-2187's shoulders and quivering silently with mirth. Then he begins to apply his mouth to FN-2187's neck.

 

 _No, fine—Poe, I'm on_ camera _here_! The young female voice continues to giggle. _Okay, so it's Poe all of you owe for that one, fine! Transfer the credits to the usual accounts, trooper's honor, all right? Try to do it in the next couple days, before lil' Huxie gets his big bad ship running again._ Hux finally remembers to blink. His eyes feel like they are made of rocks. Rocks burning up in planetary re-entry.

 

 _Rey, d'you wanna word?_ She puts the holocamera down carelessly, so the frame judders, then she's also crowded into the shot, throwing arms around both FN-2187 and the pilot's shoulders. Hux sucks in a breath through his teeth, because he realizes Ren has scooted closer on the bed and is gazing upon Rey's blue flickering face with an intensity that even kryotin can't unravel.

 

 _Cam's too old, I only got twelve seconds or so on this,_ she says to the young men, who make comical groaning sounds. _Ben,_ she turns to the holocamera, no longer giggling, in fact looking very serious--perhaps _sisterly_ , thinks Hux with revulsion. _Your ma says to make sure to run the ultrasound extra well on your tongue after something like that._ Dameron and FN-2187 seem stunned for a moment, then begin positively _wailing_ with hilarity. _Make sure to get all the back teeth, she said._

She has allowed herself a smile. Dameron, who has fallen down and pulled FN-2187 with him, sounds like he may be having a fit of hysterics on the ground. Or maybe they are kissing. Or both. They are a jumble of elbows and shins behind Rey. _Oh, and don't go blowing up any more planets,_ she begins, but the holo abruptly ends with a little _fzzt_.

 

It has been sent less than ten minutes ago. Already it has two thousand and fifty-five replies. More flood in with _ding_ s as Hux lets the datapad fall to the floor. He does not care. He does not care about anything. He sees only the death of billions. Also somewhere in there, though, is Ren's cock, which he tries to cover up with mental images of planetary fireballs, to no avail. His mind's just stuffed with a beautiful dick, and a bunch of fireballs, and millions of voices crying out. He tries to pretend they sound like voices in terror, not like himself screaming _more_ and _deeper_.

 

"May as well go blow up some planets," he hears himself say as though he were also in a bad, unsteady holo.

 

"Kill them all," Ren agrees, sweet, slow, and cloudy. He takes Hux's hand, corrects himself. " _Let's_ kill them all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kindly for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I have written the whole shebang. Doling out in bits to encourage y'all to kudos my sad, shriveled soul. :)


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